


Coping Mechanisms

by chaoticisms



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Kind of canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticisms/pseuds/chaoticisms
Summary: Phil and Melinda talk about golf.
Relationships: Phil Coulson & Melinda May, Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	Coping Mechanisms

She's been working too hard. 

She tells herself that's what it is, that's why she finds herself on the freezing cold balcony outside an hour after the plane lands.

It's one of the many places Melinda May goes to hide when the walls are breaking down. 

_"...Most healthy adults need between 7 to 9 hours of sleep per night to function at their best..."_

She knows the Academy medical manual like the back of her hand. She can hear the doctors in the medbay chastising her for not taking care of herself. She’s wearing herself too thin. She needs to slow down blah blah blah. She’ll be fine. She has to be. What are a couple of scrapes when you’ve taken a life? 

And she knows she is not at her best. 

The op was a disaster. Graduate student, twenty-six, a promising future as a biochemist. Dealt a bad hand; she didn't ask to be an Inhuman. She didn’t know how to control her powers, but the threat was too large. They had to take her out. At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself. A young life snuffed out with everything still to come. Devastated parents, little sister, older brother hiding his tears behind his shaking hands. 

And May has to be the one to tell them, she always does, always has to be the good little agent carrying the reaper's scythe. Has to say she's sorry, feeds them a little white lie, and watches the result of her failure crest like a wave that drowns her whole. 

_"...The quality of your sleep directly affects your mental and physical health and the quality of your waking life, including your productivity and emotional balance..."_

She tells herself she's overtired when it's been thirty minutes and she still can't seem to stop herself from crying. She counts to ten, centering her breathing just like her mother had taught her. Steady her heartbeat, but it isn't working. She's hanging over the handrail, staring into the gloom, and wondering not for the first time what her life, what any of this is for. 

And the sky burns orange in the low winter sun. 

"Hey," he says, right out of the silence, and May starts. She looks at him, not bothering to pretend she's not been crying, not when she can't, and when he's already seen it a dozen times before. She stares at him blankly, takes in the gentle sympathy in his familiar face. 

"Fury send you?" she asks distantly. Pretends that that's a real question when she knows already that by now, he comes after her because he cares and not because someone up the chain has made him. He cocks his head, eyes fixed on hers, and she sighs as she relents. 

He comes to stand next to her, close enough for the warmth of his forearm to creep through her coat sleeve. 

She shivers. 

"After my mom died, I used to watch golf," he says. Conversationally, like the statement makes any sense just hanging there in the air between them. She looks at him with a frown of mingled surprise and confusion. He chuckles at her expression. 

"Every time something went south, I watched golf," he clarifies, studying his clasped hands as he leans on the handrail. "After we lost Garcia in Argentina on our first mission, I took myself off to the apartment and watched a stack of old golf tapes until I got over it. Or until I was needed somewhere else or it was time to go back on mission."

"Oh," she says, wondering where this is going. "I didn't know you liked golf."

"I don't," he says. "It's boring. Pointless."

He half-smiles at her skeptical expression. 

"I'm not sure where the wisdom is in this story," she says, and vaguely notices that at some point she's turned her body away from the darkened horizon and into his, like new leaves seeking out the light. 

"Point is, everyone has a thing," he says. "Some people watch golf. Fury hits a treadmill til his shoes wear out. Hill goes to the theater and watches romcoms. Garrett, what, shoots birds backwards?" 

She smiles a bit, and when she meets his eyes she can feel the involuntary race of a traitorous heart-stirring back into life.

"And you, you come up here and blame yourself," he says, still looking at her. She sighs. 

"Will it ever stop feeling like my fault?" she asks. He gives a shrug as he considers her question. 

"Yeah," he says. "I haven't had to tape golf since Argentina."

"Oh no, how else will the old man get his golf fix?" she taunts as her lips twitch upwards into a smirk, and he shoots her an offended look. "Seriously, Phil, who still tapes things?" 

"I’m only two years older than you!" he exclaims, but a wry smile passes between them. 

They're quiet for a moment before she glances up at him. 

"I know it's not my fault. But I always, always feel like I've failed them. And I don't know how to get over that."

"Honestly, I'd be more worried about you if you didn't feel that way," he says. "You've got this. You’ve got me. It's just sometimes it sucks in this job. Life is hard and people die."

"This isn't much of a pep talk," she says, but despite her words, she can feel her tired and beaten down spirit start to pick itself back up, and she knows he knows it. 

He smiles at her properly then, and she wonders whether he also knows what it does to her when he looks at her like that. 

She thinks he probably does. 

"Come on," he says and jangles his keys in his pocket. "I'll drive you home."

It's not an offer, more of a demand, but she doesn't stop to question it. This _thing_ was always there, a penchant for their attention, but for the sake of their partnership, it stayed as just a dull fondness. They’re just lonely, nothing deeper. That’s what she tells herself. They tread quietly towards the parking lot unsure of their newfound dynamic. “You know, I thought it would’ve been Captain America.” She says. 

“I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve, Melinda.” She looks at him, not buying his response. “Fine, I could never get the recording right for the show. Golf’s always on.” He grumbles.

She just smiles and shakes her head, looping her arm around his. If it's a step outside the bounds of the fraternization policy for him to open the car door for her and for her to get inside and lean her elbow on the door so she can watch his face in profile as he drives, neither of them acknowledges it. 

And if he knows the exact route from the base to her apartment without asking a single question, they both ignore the implications. They’re not undercover, they don’t have an excuse -- it’s just Phil and Melinda. And she thinks she’s okay with that, whatever it’s becoming. 

Life is hard, she thinks. But people are good, and the feel of his arms around her shoulders when he pulls her into an impulsive embrace that lasts longer than either will admit makes her think that the way forward might not be as dark as she thought. 

He slides a pamphlet under the door once she shuts it, and she smiles. Of course he remembers. 

_Relax with Tai Chi_

_Mondays-Sundays 5am-6:30am._

**Author's Note:**

> does this work or make sense? i have no idea! but it exists and it came from my 3am thoughts and I MISS THEM!


End file.
